


Queen Moon is on her throne

by lowriseflare, threeguesses



Category: When Calls the Heart (TV)
Genre: Chastity, F/M, Fingering, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Premarital Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:52:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6701875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowriseflare/pseuds/lowriseflare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeguesses/pseuds/threeguesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night everything goes pear-shaped begins like any other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen Moon is on her throne

**Author's Note:**

> "I think Elizabeth actually might be down to fool around," I said after the whole Mountie-Theodore-is-my-weakness episode. "Like, seriously fool around." And lowriseflare was like, "Sure, but Jack would be horrified if she tried." Thus, this.
> 
> Title is, of course, Keats, _Ode to a Nightingale_.

The night everything goes pear-shaped begins like any other, supper in Elizabeth’s little house, Vienna rolls with pressed chicken and currant jelly, baked apples and cake and tea. She’s a much better cook now, Jack thinks, truly capable. Aside from the burned apples.

“Oh well,” she says when she pulls them out of the stove still smoking. “At least there’s cake.” She pauses behind Jack’s chair before she goes to fetch it, leaning over him to filch a quick kiss.

Jack smiles. She’s been doing that more and more as of late, kissing him instead of the other way around. She tried it out for the first time two weeks ago, all curly smiles and a hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt, and she seems to have found it to her liking. Jack cannot say he precisely minds.

After dinner they sit on the davenport and she reads a bit from the pages she’s been working on recently, more adventures of Mountie Theodore and his pheasant-shooting frontier sweetheart. Jack leans back against the cushions, settles in. He likes the sound of her voice, the quiet confidence of it; when Elizabeth reads aloud, even from the back of a bean can, you can tell how many years of schooling she’s had.

She’s a good writer, and it’s a lovely story. Still, Jack maintains it could use a shootout, frankly, and it’s possible he’s begun to pay more attention to the movement of her mouth than the actual tale when abruptly she stops. “There’s a kiss here,” she informs him, setting the pages down in her lap and smoothing them, “but I haven’t written it yet.”

Jack raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t know if it’s appropriate for a woman to be writing that sort of thing. “There’s a kiss?”

Elizabeth smiles, fussing with her papers. “Why, it’s a romance, Jack. Of course there’s a kiss.” She looks impish now, expectant, her mouth curling up like a rose.

Jack doesn’t need a story to tell him what happens next. “What kind of kiss?” he asks. “Can you describe it to me?”

Elizabeth shakes her head. “It escapes description. I’d better show you instead.”

Jack laughs, watching as she sets the pages to one side. She looks lovely this evening, a pink dress and her hair gathered at her nape in a way that always causes Jack to picture her at her toilet, elegant white arms raised as she places the pins. He has been quite looking forward to kissing her. “You’ll have a hard time writing it if it escapes description.”

“I know,” Elizabeth says with mock-solemnity, sliding closer on the davenport. “That’s why I’ve got to practice with you.”

“Oh, I see.” Jack bites back a smile, trying to match her flirtation for flirtation. She’s better at this game than he is. “Then you’ll have to instruct me. How does this kiss begin?”

“We-ll,” Elizabeth says, drawing the word out into two singsong syllables, her blue eyes wide. “I _suppose_ first Mountie Theodore might put his hand on his beloved’s waist, and pull her closer.”

Jack nods seriously. “Like this?” he asks, curling his fingers around her and tugging gently. She smells like the honey at the bottom of her tea.

“Mm, something like that.” Elizabeth looks thoughtful. “Next, I think he might tell her something sweet.”

“Elizabeth,” Jack says, feeling himself flush a bit.

“You certainly don’t have to,” Elizabeth says mildly, peering at him through sooty eyelashes. Her body is very warm through her dress. “I just think that’s what Mountie Theodore might do.”

Jack takes a breath. He could compliment the chicken, but he rather thinks that’s not what she means. “You’re beautiful,” he tells her instead, then grabs hold of his courage with two hands to force out the rest. “ I’ve wanted to kiss you all evening.” There. That’s something sweet if Jack ever heard it. Only his voice catches as he says it, and he worries that perhaps the pureness of the sentiment has been lost.

Elizabeth’s expression does not look particularly pure. “All evening,” she repeats in a murmur. “Well. You’ve been very good to wait.”

“Mountie Theodore is a gentlemen,” Jack says, feeling the need to disclaim the statement in some way. “It would have been improper to disrupt dinner.” Oh, but _disrupt_ is the wrong word entirely, suggesting a certain level of unseemly activity and vigour. Jack swallows. “What next?” he asks, hoping to move them past this moment and into another, less-indecorous one.

“The kiss itself, I think,” Elizabeth says, eyes dropping to his mouth. “I think she’d want to be kissed after that.”

Lord. Jack closes his eyes and leans in obediently, taking Mountie Theodore’s kiss. Elizabeth tastes as she smells, like honey, sweet and hot from the tea. Jack pulls back sooner than he wants to, sitting up and squeezing Elizabeth’s waist in punctuation.

It takes her a long moment to open her eyes. “Just that?” she asks, smiling at him. “That certainly didn’t feel like the kiss of a person waiting all evening. Are you taking your role seriously, Jack?”

“I didn’t want to brand Mountie Theodore as a rake,” he protests, but he leans back in to kiss her again anyway, putting no small amount of effort into it this time. It’s Elizabeth, Lord knows he’s kissed her passionately before. When she opens her mouth he slides his tongue against hers gently, just a soft press, and Elizabeth makes a soft, contented sound. She pouts when he pulls away.

“How was that?” Jack asks, feeling pleased with himself. Her face has gone pleasantly pink.

“I think,” Elizabeth says, breathless, “that I’ll write it as three kisses.” Jack laughs and ducks his head again.

She winds both arms around his neck this time, holding him within the circle of her arms. Jack doesn’t think she’s ever done that before; it brings their bodies much closer together, her chest just barely pressing against his. Jack imagines he can feel her lungs expanding. He imagines he can feel the very beat of her heart.

It's a long, wet kiss, deep and total. Jack’s own heart begins to pound. He’s been feeling this lately in the midst of their embraces, an excess of energy, a kind of impatience that feels frankly shameful if he dwells on it for too long. It isn't right, to want a woman this badly. It isn't proper to kiss for long, quiet minutes—and to wish, God help him, for more than kisses—without first making her your wife.

The answer to this seems obvious: after all, they’ve been courting nearly two years this spring. Still, every time Jack gets it into his head to present her with the ring he remembers Charles down on one knee in the schoolroom, Charles with his fortune and his fancy suit and, presumably, her father’s blessing. Jack himself lives at the _jail_. There's no way he’s going to propose to Elizabeth without something to offer her. Even if it means waiting a little longer.

Elizabeth doesn't seem bothered, in any event, all breath and hair and quiet, maddening noises. Her fingertips scrabble lightly through the hair at the back of his neck. She sucks at his bottom lip a bit, worrying it with her neat, sharp teeth, and oh, Jack knows he ought to stop her. He pulls back to rest his forehead against hers, telling himself he’ll bid her goodnight in a moment.

“You’re not writing the kiss like this, are you?” he asks quietly, looking down at Elizabeth’s rosy face. “I doubt this is fit for print.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widen in surprise. “Why, Constable Thornton,” she exclaims, and Jack can tell she’s pleased he’s playing along. So rarely does he manage to flirt on a level even approximating her own. “I don’t know,” she continues, gone mock-speculative. “How scandalous can this be? We’re still upright and conversing. I think my readers could handle it.”

Mercy, that certainly _sounds_ like an invitation to—Jack huffs out a surprised laugh, brushing his mouth over her flushed cheekbone. “So is that it?” he finds himself asking, wanting to tease, wanting to keep that expression on her face. “Mountie Theodore kisses his beloved and then they converse for a while?”

Elizabeth is staring at him with naked delight now. “No,” she says firmly, “that’s not it.”

Oh Lord, Jack really is going to, he’s going to lay her down on this sofa. He doesn’t know why he expected she would stop him. “Elizabeth,” he begins, then gives up, taking hold of her waist and nudging gently until her head is resting on the bolero pillow. “Do not write about this,” he begs.

“I won’t,” she promises breathlessly. “Jack, kiss me.”

Jack does, first on her warm wet mouth but then on her lovely neck, which makes her gasp and squirm under him. Jack’s head swims. This, certainly, is plenty scandalous. If printed, this would most likely see Elizabeth arrested on obscenity charges, depending on if she cared to mention the placement of her own hands, dropping dangerously low on Jack’s back. He keeps one foot planted on the floor in the hopes that it mitigates the situation somewhat, if one of them isn’t fully reclining. He rather thinks it doesn’t.

Adding to the indelicacy is Elizabeth’s position beneath him, her elegant spine arched as he kisses her, her generous chest pushed up and out like the prow of a ship. Jack closes his eyes against the urge to look down. He knows it’s wrong, but he thinks about it sometimes, late at night when the prairie wind and his own solitude leave him restless: the soft swell of her under her corset, what she might look like without it on.

 _Enough_. Lord, he needs to extract himself. He’s truly about to sit up, any second now he’s going to pull away, when Elizabeth reaches up and takes his hand. Jack thinks she’s looking to hold it, the gesture oddly sweet considering their current position. He laces their fingers together, squeezing with what he hopes is manful reassurance. He doesn’t feel very sure of himself at all.

He’s got it wrong, in any event: that’s not what Elizabeth wants. She pulls away and catches hold of his wrist instead, pushing it downward. For a person with such delicate fingers, her grip is surprisingly strong. “Elizabeth,” Jack starts, but she doesn’t answer.

He honestly has no idea what she’s after until the moment she slips his hand under her skirts.

“Elizabeth!” It’s easy work to break her grip, but not before his fingers brush against the hot skin of her leg. All of his body suddenly feels enormously unsteady, like the aftermath of a gunfight.

“Jack,” Elizabeth says, sounding amused. “It’s all right, I—”

“Stop. Please.” He rests his forehead against her shoulder, trying to collect himself. His fingertips are tingling, like he touched a holy relic and came away damned instead of baptized. He daren’t look at her face. “Elizabeth, I’m going to say goodnight now.”

“Jack!” She struggles to sit up underneath him, her hands clasping at his arms. “Now wait just one minute.”

But Jack can’t wait, because he’s embarrassed and flushed and worse, worse than all that, he’s hard under his trousers. Desperately so, in fact, in danger of spending himself at the slightest touch. He doesn’t know when he gave her the impression that he was the kind of man who required her to lift her skirts.

“Goodnight,” he tells her firmly, and walks out the door.

 

 

Elizabeth sits bolt upright on the sofa with her hands clasped tightly in her lap for a long time after Jack walks out, trying in vain to collect her racing thoughts. It feels like she’s spun on some awful wheel of emotion, cycling through rage and humiliation and confusion and horror too fast to even properly register any of them before starting all over again.

Oh, this is bad.

This is very, very bad.

Elizabeth swallows down the bile rising in her throat, forcing herself to get up and drink a glass of cold water. To go upstairs and get undressed. She feels oddly squeamish about touching herself, picking delicately at the hooks on her corset and turning away from the mirror as she pulls her chemise up over her head. She’d like to forget she has a body at all.

Nonsense, she scolds herself as she climbs under the covers. Jack’s the one who ought to be ashamed. She is Elizabeth Thatcher, of the Hamilton Thatchers, and he has the gall to—to—

That’s when she burst into tears.

Oh, but she wants to run to Abigail, she wants to hide her face in someone’s skirts and be told there’s no harm done. But she can’t. She can’t tell anyone in this wholesome town, where all the dancing is slow and stately and the fashions are nearly five years out of date. She longs for Julie, who she knows for a fact kissed Henry Lawrence while sitting in his lap two seasons ago, who at age eight lifted her skirts for William Rhodes because their governess had left the nursery for a moment and Julie wanted to know how to use the chamber pot without crouching. Lord, even _Viola_ has been in a clinch with a boy—Elizabeth and Julie once spied her letting James Courville touch her over her corset behind the kitchens during a ball, eyes closed and face flushed. Elizabeth was twelve. She remembers every detail, the beading on Viola’s dress, her complicated chignon being crushed against the wall, James Courville’s large hands and skinny wrists. She did not expect to have to wait until she was nearly thirty to try it herself.

She _certainly_ did not expect to be chastised afterwards.

She hardly sleeps that night, tossing and turning, swinging wildly between hot anger and even hotter shame. She and Jack have been courting for two years. Is he truly content with chaste goodnight kisses? Does he even want to—

Elizabeth can’t finish the thought. She rolls over and buries her face in the pillow, resolving not to think anymore at all.

 

 

The following morning, Jack catches Caleb Dunbar playing truant and very nearly looks the other way. “Get along now,” Jack snaps, and it’s not until he sees that the boy has absolutely no intention of returning to class unless that he blows an angry breath out and hustles the child across town.

“Miss Thatcher,” Jack says tightly, nudging Caleb through the schoolhouse door more roughly than he generally makes a habit of handling children. She’s standing at the front of the classroom with her russet hair loose around her shoulders, so heartbreakingly beautiful that for a moment Jack almost forgets what she did. “I believe this lad belongs to you during school hours.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth says, her voice chilly as the river in February. She’s holding herself very still. “Caleb, take your seat. Constable.” She turns back to the chalkboard, dismissing him.

Jack’s hands ball into fists at his sides, face burning. He doesn’t see what _she_ has to be angry about. She’s the one who isn’t keeping a close enough eye on her students. She’s the reason Jack barely even slept. He had to take himself in hand before he could even lie down on his mattress last night, then again before he could think of closing his eyes, and still when he finally did her wanton expression was all he could see. He imagines he can feel her hot skin against his fingertips. He imagines—

“Constable?” Elizabeth says, though she’s still looking at the chalkboard, as if that old schoolhouse adage is true and she really does have eyes at the back of her head. “Is there anything else?”

Jack swallows. “No, that was all. Good day, Miss Thatcher. Children.” He doffs his hat and heads out the door without another word.

He resolves to talk to her that night. He must, surely. He can’t let a day go by without correcting this. They need to speak about propriety, clearly, about the fact that Jack loves her wholly and completely and does not need her to ruin herself to keep his interest. Can she think so little of him? Can she sincerely believe that he requires some sort of—some sort of _love play_ to stay true to her?

What would he even _do_ with his hand up her skirts, Jack wonders. Could she possibly have intended him to touch—

Jack finds himself too stiff to continue walking. He stands facing the lake for a long, long time before continuing on into town.

That night, he times his visit carefully. After supper hour, so as not to be an imposition, but not so late as to risk her being in her nightdress. He made that mistake a week ago, dropping by on a lark after his nightly rounds to find Elizabeth already dressed for bed, bare feet and a thick braid over one shoulder, a bit of ribbon at the end as if she were a little girl. They were both of them shy but she invited him in for tea anyway and Jack found himself lingering, loving the privacy of it, her bare ankles and worn nighttime shawl with loose threads, her sleepy face in the lamplight. When he kissed her goodbye he tugged on the end of her braid, just gently. And Elizabeth—sure-footed Elizabeth, who could flirt circles around him with her eyes closed—had blushed.

In any case: Jack doesn’t want to risk nightgowns tonight.

 

 

Elizabeth is staring at the blank sheet of paper in her typewriter and nibbling a bit of tea cake, thinking there’s no way on Earth she’s ever going to write a kissing scene now, when she hears the knock on the door of the row house. She suspects it’s Abigail, come by for an evening chat—her friend has a sense for things gone rotten in the state of Denmark, even without knowing what the specific trouble might be. Elizabeth hopes she’s brought more sweets.

“Jack,” she says, when she opens the door.

“Elizabeth,” he says softly, and oh, he won’t even _look_ at her. Elizabeth doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “May I come in?”

“Of course,” she says stiffly, stepping back. He’s holding his hat in front of him like a shield.

“I think we ought to talk about last night,” he says, once they’re both standing in her kitchen.

Now Elizabeth does laugh, a short mean bark that doesn’t sound anything like her normal laugh. It sounds like Viola’s. She tries to make her voice like Viola’s too when she says, “I don’t.”

Jack looks confused. “You don’t?”

“I don’t see as there’s anything to discuss,” Elizabeth says, channeling her sister’s proud haughtiness, her ability to turn other people to dust with a perfectly timed lift of her chin.

“Elizabeth,” Jack whispers, before reaching out to touch her wrist beneath the cuff of her dress. Elizabeth stills. She honestly hadn’t thought he would touch her ever again. “Well, I’m going to discuss it,” he continues, his voice resolute. His thumb is resting against the underside of her wrist; while Elizabeth is looking down at their hands he strokes her lightly, just one slow slide. “I can’t let you go on thinking that that’s the sort of thing I expect.”

Elizabeth laughs harshly, pulling away her hand away. “I assure you, Constable, there is no danger of my thinking that.”

Jack looks so completely puzzled she almost laughs again in spite of herself. “Elizabeth. I don’t understand.” He reaches for her chin this time, tipping her face to look at him. “Sweetheart,” he says, and oh, he’s never used terms of endearments before, not once in all the time they’ve been courting. Of course the first time would be now, here in her kitchen as he’s telling her he doesn’t want anything from her beyond chastity. “What made you think I was that kind of man in the first place?”

Lord, this is truly awful, this is the most humiliating conversation Elizabeth has ever been a part of, including the discussion she had with her mother about monthlies. She pulls free again and walks over to the stove to begin a pot of tea. “I wasn’t doing it just for you, Jack,” she hisses, fumbling for the matches. Her face is so hot she could probably boil the water just by leaning her cheek against the kettle.

“You weren’t—” When Elizabeth turns to face him he’s shaking his head, like one of her students when their sums aren’t adding up correctly. He’s still holding his hat. “Then who were you doing it for?”

God help them both, he’s being sincere. Elizabeth’s eyes widen. “Well, why don’t you _think_ about it, Constable,” she all but spits, setting two teacups on the table so hard she nearly breaks them. Charles would never have put her through this, she thinks nastily, and it’s only the fear of Jack ending their courtship entirely that keeps her from saying it out loud.

Still, Jack’s eyes narrow, as if somehow he’s read her mind. “I don’t think _you_ have any reason to be angry with _me_ ,” he starts, sounding for all the world like the pompous mule she thought he was when she first moved to Hope Valley. But then something in his eyes changes; he _is_ thinking about it, Elizabeth can tell by the baffled expression on his face. “You mean,” he says quietly, after puzzling it out for a moment, working to the logical conclusion, “you... _wanted_ me...to—?”

“Well, not _now_ ,” Elizabeth snaps, and oh, she is _mortified_. She’s a half-step away from ending this miserable courtship herself.

“No, but—” Jack’s eyes are wide and honest. He places the hat on the kitchen chair. “ _Why_?”

For a moment Elizabeth is too furious even to speak. “Why do you _think_ , Jack?” she practically screeches, then covers her face with a hand. “All right,” she says, forcing herself to take a breath. She feels like a Jezebel, she feels just about the least Christian she ever has in her life. She cannot believe she is allowing some corn-fed boy from Alberta to shame her. “You should leave now,” she tells him, but when she takes her hand away from her face Jack is suddenly five paces closer and still coming, a sort of oddly fixed look about him, as if he is lost at sea and she’s the North Star.

“Elizabeth,” he says, and then he’s directly in front of her, his face bent and peering into hers. “Tell me why?”

“I’m telling you _nothing_ , Constable,” Elizabeth starts, but before she even finishes the sentence he’s kissing her.

 

 

For a terrifying moment, Jack thinks she may be about to slap him.

“Stop it, Jack,” she snaps instead, twisting her face to the side and fisting both hands in his red serge. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Lord, Jack hasn’t seen her this angry since their first meeting, when he insulted her family and told her he didn’t expect her to last one week. Her face had gone red and pinched, unattractive blotches of colour mottling her cheeks. Jack has never loved anything more in his life. “Tell me why, Elizabeth,” he demands quietly. “Please.”

“I will _not_ ,” she shrieks, tossing her head so violently her cheekbone catches him full on the mouth. She’s neither pulling him closer nor pushing him away but simply holding fast, keeping him caught, her fingers hooked into his serge like claws. “This is mortifying, Jack, can’t you see that?”

Jack is starting to, in fact. He wonders how he can possibly atone. He wonders if this means he’ll have to guard both of their virtues. He always thought that was the woman’s job, and the man’s job to chase, but if Elizabeth feels desire for him so strongly then— “You wanted?” he hears himself say, putting a questioning hand on her waist, and oh, that was not what he meant at all, that is the wrong kind of sentiment entirely. He just needs to know, needs to understand.

“Not anymore,” Elizabeth says, and swallows. Her face has gone arrestingly pink.

“But you did, right?” Jack continues, thumb worrying the bottom edge of her corset through her dress. His lip smarts where she banged it. “You wanted, and you truly wouldn’t have stopped me?”

She shoves him then after all and he catches her fists, small and sharp within the grasp of his own. “I would have stopped you eventually, Constable,” she hisses. “It wasn’t some carte blanche to take my maidenhead.”

Jack cannot believe she just said those words to him out loud, here in her kitchen in her house with all its closed doors. He is hard enough under his breeches to make a visible lump. He prays she won’t look. “Elizabeth,” he whispers in shock, dropping his mouth to her hot cheek. “Sweetheart, you’re going to kill me.”

“Stop,” Elizabeth spits, wrenching her face away. “I will not be shamed again.”

Jack shakes his head helplessly. “I’m not shaming you, Elizabeth, I—We cannot both of us want it this much.”

All of a sudden Elizabeth goes still, her fists slackening inside his grip, arms and shoulders limp. “I didn’t know we both did.”

“It would have been indecorous for me to tell you,” Jack says. He has, without quite knowing he was doing it, somehow fisted his hand in her skirts. “Elizabeth, truly. We can’t both—” He breaks off hopelessly. “We _cannot_. If we both do, what’s to stop us?”

Elizabeth turns her face into his, close enough to kiss. “Do you want to stop?” she asks, very very quietly. “Jack. What _do_ you want?”

Jack presses his forehead against hers in frustration. “It’s not the kind of thing one speaks about.”

Elizabeth kisses him then, just a catch of her teeth at his bottom lip. “You humiliated me, Jack,” she says, speaking the words right into his mouth. “How am I supposed to know you desire me at all?”

“ _Elizabeth_.” Jack squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them, searching. He has no idea what to do. Everything he’s ever been taught says that this is wrong, a massive breach of etiquette, that physical love is sacred only within the confines of marriage. That just by staying in this room he could ruin both of their reputations forever. But then it’s _Elizabeth_ , her smell and her hair and her heartbreakingly uncertain expression. It’s Elizabeth. And she _wants_ him to. Jack thinks the top of his head might come clean off.

“I intend to marry you,” he blurts breathlessly. It feels enormously important, all of a sudden, to tell her, and he nearly stumbles over the words in his hurry to get them out. “You know that, don’t you? I don’t—this isn’t a proposal, this isn’t how I’d ever mean to propose, but. I would never—if I didn’t—” Jack breaks off, swallowing. “I intend to make you my wife.”

Elizabeth blinks, her eyes wide in the lamplight. “Yes,” she says slowly. “I suppose I do know that.”

“And I’ll take care of you,” Jack continues, “and keep you safe, and build you a home you can be proud of.”

Elizabeth nods. “I know you will.”

“And—”

“Jack,” Elizabeth says softly, interrupting. “I know.”

Jack exhales, taking a step even closer. He’s still clutching her skirt in his fist. “I desire you,” he whispers into the whorl of her ear, closing his eyes against the truth of it. Damned, then, both of them, too far gone to save. “I desire you like I have never desired anyone or anything. Sometimes it scares me, Elizabeth, wanting you so much.”

Elizabeth exhales against his cheek, a noisy rush of air. “Jack,” she murmurs, and then she’s kissing him again, wet and open-mouthed and hungry; Jack gives up all attempts at proprietary and hauls her against his body with an arm all the way around her neck. To his surprise, it makes her laugh.

“Jack,” she whispers. “Oh, thank God.”

“I don’t think we should thank Him, precisely,” Jack says carefully, and then they are both grinning, and Jack is so relieved he hardly even cares about virtue or sin, about what civilized society would say. “Were you really that worried?” he asks, and somehow he’s lifting her skirts a little now, drawing up the hem just an inch. Elizabeth swallows.

“Yes.” She looks down at his hand, then back at his face. “Jack.” And then she’s taking his wrist again and pushing it down gently, sliding it toward her knees. This time Jack completes the motion for her, gathering up her dress and petticoats and slipping his hand underneath.

“Elizabeth,” he says, and she makes a soft sound in reply. Dear God, she’s so warm. His fingertips are just barely brushing her thigh. “What do you know of this?” he asks, thinking suddenly of Charles, about other past suitors.

“Nothing,” Elizabeth whispers, her breath fanning across his face. “I just wanted to be touched. What do you know?”

 _Touched where?_ Jack thinks desperately, and does not ask. “Nothing,” he tells her, looking down at his hand and swallowing. The sight of his own arm rucking up Elizabeth’s skirts is the most arresting he’s seen in his life, her pale knees and stockings exposed by the raised hem. “I don’t know anything about it.”

Elizabeth smiles then, one of her catlike half-grins. “I think you have to actually touch me, Constable,” she says, and it’s so wonderful to have her teasing him again that Jack obeys without thought, brushing his fingertips along the inside of her thigh. Her skin is like vellum.

Elizabeth gasps, her own fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Like that?” he asks softly, and she nods. And oh, Jack is in trouble now, as if he wasn’t already, because there’s no way on God’s Earth he’s going to be satisfied doing this just once. He wants to touch her everywhere, to never to take his hands off her body. He had no idea a person could be so soft.

“ _Jack_.” Elizabeth’s head is tipped back, eyes slipping shut in what certainly looks like pleasure. Jack fastens his mouth to her neck. He wants to get as close as he possibly can, lust and possession, but it feels like more than that, somehow. For a moment he almost wants to _be_ her, so they can experience everything the same.

They’re still standing in the middle of her kitchen, kettle boiling merrily away on the stovetop. Jack wishes for someplace to lean. He’s lightheaded, he keeps holding his breath without meaning to; God help him, he wants to lie down. “How’s that?” he asks instead of suggesting it, flipping his hand and rubbing lightly with his knuckles. The skin of her throat is hot against his mouth.

“Good,” Elizabeth says, sounding breathless, so Jack keeps doing it, dragging his knuckles up and down, slow and gentle. On his third pass up her thigh the side of his thumb brushes the hem of her drawers. Elizabeth inhales sharply.

“Forgive me,” Jack says, sliding his hand down to safer territory, but Elizabeth is already shaking her head.

“It’s all right.” Her voice, though short of breath, is calm and even. “Jack. It’s all right.”

Jack presses his mouth back against her neck, kissing with just a suggestion of teeth. He’s feeling that excess of energy again, unrestrained and jumping along his muscles. “Elizabeth,” he begins, then laughs helplessly. “You did say something about stopping me eventually, did you not?”

“I did,” Elizabeth says, her hands smoothing over his back. “I will. Just not now.”

The promise that she will stop him at some future juncture galvanizes Jack somewhat, and he slides his knuckles back up her leg. This time when he reaches the hem of her drawers he runs his thumb along the edge lightly, fussing with it. “Tell me how it feels?” he asks Elizabeth, pulling back to see her face. He wants to inhabit her mind and body alike, to have her very thoughts written out for his consumption.

She opens her eyes, dipping her chin forward languidly. “I don't know, Jack. As a lady, I probably shouldn't say.” She kisses his mouth, then his jaw, then puts her lips right up against his ear. “But I could show you some of it,” she whispers, and places her open mouth on his neck.

Jack nearly gasps himself. She’s never done that before, no one has, not any of the girls he’s kissed. Her mouth is wet and hot and slow and for a moment Jack forgets where his hand is; when Elizabeth sucks gently he jerks it higher, his knuckles suddenly bumping against both her thighs, much, much nearer to their juncture than he ever intended to touch. He flinches, but instead of drawing back Elizabeth makes a quiet sound and widens her stance, just slightly, but almost as if she's trying to—to—

“Not yet,” she murmurs into his skin, answering his unspoken question. She’s got one hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt, the other cupping his jaw to hold him to her. Jack wants to turn his face to kiss her palm, but he's afraid she’ll take her mouth away if he tries it. “I’ll stop you. Just not yet.”

“All right.” Jack’s voice is shaky; his eyes keep slipping shut. “My god, Elizabeth, that feels—”

“I know,” she says, and uses her teeth on him, a quick sharp bite against his skin; it reminds Jack of a bee sting, and also it’s nothing like a bee sting at all. “You see why I like it so much?”

Jack sees. It's unhinging, the idea that this is how she feels when he does it. He is so absurdly, desperately hard. Beneath her skirts her skin is getting damper, sweat from his hand and her own perspiration combined with something else, something slippery; he touches the edge of her drawers again, just lightly, and Elizabeth moans.

“ _Elizabeth_.” Jack barely knows what happens next, some combination of her stepping even closer and his own muscle reflex, the twist of his wrist, but somehow, suddenly instead of touching her thighs he’s touching between them, cupping her burning hot self against his palm.

“Oh, Jack.” Against his neck, Elizabeth’s voice sounds choked. “Not yet,” she says hurriedly before he can even pause or ask the question. “Oh, Jack, _please_.” And then she’s dropping her hips right into his hand, pressing herself against it. It’s so exactly like a cat fixing to be pet that Jack doesn’t even have to guess at what she wants.

He cups her more firmly, almost without conscious thought, dragging his palm over the damp fabric of her drawers. It’s as if his hand has become a separate appendage, controlled by her gasping breaths instead of his own mind. She’s unbelievably warm, so much warmer than he thought a human body could be; underneath the cotton of her drawers he can feel the soft scritch of hair. Oh, God have mercy, but he wants to lie her down, he wants to take her underthings off, he wants to lift her skirts and just _look_ at her. He’s seen drawings of this part of her body before, obscene pamphlets he’s had to confiscate while on the job, but until this very moment he hadn’t let himself extrapolate the picture to Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s thighs, Elizabeth’s drawers, Elizabeth’s wet shaking—

“Elizabeth,” he whispers. Against his neck her kisses have suddenly become so much bolder, sucking and biting at him, drawing his skin up into her mouth. It feels like no other sensation on earth. “ _Elizabeth_.”

“Oh, Jack, please,” she murmurs, rocking her hips just slightly now, her intent unmistakably carnal. It should be vulgar but instead Jack just feels blessed that she trusts him with it. He lets one of his fingertips dip underneath the hem of her drawers, far enough to brush against the hair. As soon as he does, several things happen at once.

Elizabeth moans again, which makes him gasp and begin to apologize, but she simply shakes her head and steps _into_ him, into his body, no space left between them at all. Jack’s length is suddenly trapped between their hips, exquisite pressure where before there was none, and before he can so much as think to grasp Elizabeth’s waist to move her away he’s already spending himself, great shivering pulses that feel like they’re never going to stop. He lets out a sound while it’s happening, he can’t help it, relief and terror all mixed up. It feels so terribly good.

 

 

“Jack,” Elizabeth starts, not entirely sure what just happened. The noise he made—a groan, low and animal—certainly _sounded_ like pleasure, but the expression on his face now is pure panic. He looks like he wishes the universe would swallow him whole.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stutters, face even redder than it was a moment ago, anxious and so keenly, heartbreakingly alert. He looks like he might be about to run out the front door of the row house all over again.

Elizabeth frowns. “Why are you apologizing?” she asks, breathless. He’s stopped rubbing between her legs. Suddenly she’s worried it’s something she did that’s upset him so, that somehow she’s overstepped again. “What—?”

“ _Elizabeth_ ,” he says, sounding miserable. His gaze flicks downward, just for a second; she sees the dark place on his trousers, and begins to understand. She thinks of Leviticus and the seed of copulation, of Onan and his brother’s wife, and bites her lip.

“Jack,” she murmurs again, and oh, he looks so _embarrassed_. It’s breaking Elizabeth’s heart. She curls her fingers around his wrist, gets closer. Tips her mouth close to his ear. “I didn’t stop you yet.”

Jack makes a soft sound of surprise against her temple. “When do you intend to?” he asks breathlessly, his wrist flexing under her grip as he cups her again. It’s a game attempt at a tease and Elizabeth laughs, loving him so very much.

“Not yet,” she repeats, turning into him so he can watch the play of expression across her face. She was hiding before but now she wants to let him see every last reaction, wants to take away his embarrassment in any way she can, even if she makes a spectacle of herself in the process. “Jack,” she murmurs as he rubs a little harder, her eyes slipping closed.

“What does it feel like?” Jack asks her again, and now there’s something of a demand in his voice. His fingertips are pressing the fabric of her drawers into her skin, the cotton rough and abrasive and wet. “Elizabeth. Please tell me.”

Elizabeth tightens her grip on his wrist. “Like—Heavens, Jack, I don’t know. Pleasurable,” she murmurs, only she opens her eyes as she’s saying it and the last syllable drops right out from underneath her when she see’s the look on Jack’s face. Elizabeth licks her lips and tries again. “Pleasurable.”

“Elizabeth.” He has one hand on her cheek now, holding her to him. “Like this?” he asks, watching her face carefully as he strokes, his fingers working the thick cotton right into the seam of her body, so much sensation it’s nearly painful. Elizabeth makes a quiet sound, swaying into him. “Or like this?” he whispers, and slips a few fingertips under the hem of her drawers instead.

“Like that,” Elizabeth says immediately, her hand clutching convulsively at his wrist. “Oh, Jack, like that.”

“Shh,” Jack says, hot mouth against her temple. “I won’t stop until you say.”

He’s as good as his word, rubbing gently and then a bit harder; Elizabeth shifts her hips against his touch. She doesn’t even know quite what she’s after, exactly, only that everything is warm and slippery and _good_ , the pleasurable feeling getting bigger and bigger inside her until suddenly it explodes like fireworks, as if her whole body might flame out into dust. Elizabeth leans into him while it’s happening, knees quaking, letting him take her weight as she buries her face in his shoulder. It feels like it goes on for a long time.

“Stop,” she murmurs finally, curling her hands around his shoulders and pushing him gently away from her, lifting her eyes shyly to his face. She feels as damp and dazed as he looks. She’s expecting a rush of shame but instead all she can think is how much she loves him, how strangely close to him she feels in this moment. How she can’t possibly imagine doing that—or anything like it—with anyone else.

“Elizabeth,” Jack says finally, easing his hand out from underneath her petticoats. Everyplace he isn’t touching her suddenly feels very cold. She wants to wrap herself up in his flannel; she wants—God help her—she wants to take him to bed. “I meant it,” Jack continues, resting his forehead against hers. His voice is low and whispering like the wind through long grass. “I intend to marry you.”

“You’d better,” Elizabeth tells him, laughing a little. Her hands still curled around his broad shoulders. Her whole body feels pleasurably heavy, a lassitude settling into her bones like the satisfaction of a large meal and a long day. Oh, but she wants to lie down with him. Just to lie down, she swears only that.

“I will,” Jack says earnestly. “I will, I promise.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Lord, Elizabeth, that was—you’re so beautiful.” He sounds so awed, like a man who tasted the bitter waters of Marah and found them sweet. He does not sound ashamed.

“I told you I would stop you eventually,” Elizabeth says, blushing in spite of herself.

Jack grins unexpectedly, wrapping both arms around her waist and lifting her, swinging her around like she’s a bell. “I desire you,” he says into her ear, like he wants to be sure she knows. “I desire you so much, Elizabeth. I fear I’m going to want to do that again.”

“Me too,” Elizabeth whispers, and closes her eyes.


End file.
